


Macarons

by smollestofsmolbeans



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Birthday, England (Country), England can't bake, France (Country), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:15:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24338002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smollestofsmolbeans/pseuds/smollestofsmolbeans
Summary: England tries to make macarons for France's birthday... and fails miserably. One-shot. Rated T for mild suggestive themes at the end.
Relationships: England & France (Hetalia), England/France (Hetalia)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	Macarons

England had tried to bake something that was actually good. He really had. 

But somehow, just like always, it hadn’t worked out.

It was France’s birthday and he had wanted to make something special, something French and sophisticated, to impress his husband. Of course, he should have known better than to attempt something so delicate, considering even his simple English scones never turned out right. But he couldn’t help but try, because he knew how impressed his lover would be if he actually succeeded. France loved baking, but England knew that he viewed him as a terrible baker, and he wasn’t wrong, either, which was most of the reason England decided to bake macarons in the first place. He felt a need to prove himself.

That morning, France had left to go to work just like any other morning. He had wanted to take the day off, but he had an important meeting that apparently he couldn’t miss. England was sad that he wouldn’t be able to spend the whole day with him, but that was when the idea of a surprise came to him.

As far as France knew, England had gone to work too, just like usual. England always left before France did since he started work earlier, but instead of going to work that morning, England drove to a grocery store. He had found a recipe that seemed reputable enough the night before and picked up the things on his list. Then he returned home. He was always home before France anyway, since his work schedule was an hour earlier than the Frenchman’s, so it wouldn’t be a surprise when France came home and he was already there. No, the surprise would come later.

Once back in their spacey kitchen (which France had insisted on when they built the house), England got to work. Combine the powdered sugar and almond flour, whisk the egg whites, pipe the macarons onto a parchment paper-lined baking sheet. He was careful to follow the instructions exactly, because of his general ineptitude at baking. When it was ready, he carefully slid the tray into the oven and set the timer, preparing the buttercream filling while they baked.

Everything seemed fine at first. He removed the baked macarons, which looked okay at the moment, from the oven. Ten minutes later, when they were cool enough to remove from the paper, the disaster occurred.

The macarons would just crumble and fall apart when he tried to remove them from the paper. He was meticulously careful in using the flipper to slowly pry them up, but nevertheless they were stuck and would never come off in one piece. “Damn it!” England muttered, as yet another macaron broke. 

Angrily, he attempted to remove the rest of them from the parchment paper, but to no avail. By the time he was done, not one macaron was left intact. There was no point in trying to put any buttercream on these. Cursing, England swept the crumbled macarons into a container and put them in the cupboard, out of his sight. 

France returned home around five o’clock. England saw him through the front room window as he sat sipping his tea and reading a newspaper absent-mindedly. As the blue sedan pulled up to their driveway, England felt the butterflies in his stomach. He would have to explain his failure to France, and then there would surely be laughing and teasing. Besides, he felt like a terrible husband. It was France’s birthday, and all he had done was make some broken macarons. Nevertheless, he greeted his husband at the door with a smile and a quick peck on the cheek.

They sat down to dinner together, eating the French food France had brought home on his way back from work. England sipped at his soup, but he didn’t feel particularly hungry. A pit of dread was pooling in his stomach, and he didn’t talk much throughout the meal. France noticed, of course.

“Angleterre, what is the matter? You haven’t said a word this whole time, and you’ve barely touched your food.”

“Nothing,” England muttered, taking a big spoonful of soup just to prove him wrong. 

“Something’s the matter. You can tell me, you know.”

“Really, it’s nothing,” England replied, going back to his soup. He forced himself to eat the rest of it, not wanting to insult France even though he really didn’t want to eat it. He was considering just not telling France about his failed attempt at baking. It would probably be better for both of them, and it would save him the embarrassment. He could just tell France that his present wasn’t ready yet, and he’d figure something out the next day. He took a deep breath, trying to relax.

“What’s this?” France asked, poking his head out from the fridge, where he was presumably looking for a half-opened bottle of wine, because there was always one on hand in their fridge. He held up the bowl of buttercream for England to see.

“Shit,” England muttered under his breath. So much for his plan to just not tell France. “It’s buttercream,” he eventually confessed, his cheeks flaming. “I tried to make macarons. They’re in the cupboard.”

France opened the cupboard to see the container full of broken pieces. He smiled. “Angleterre, that’s so sweet of you.” He walked over to where England was standing and kissed him gently. When he pulled back he let out a laugh which he had been trying to supress. “But why on earth would you try to make macarons? You know how complicated and difficult French baking is, especially macarons. And you know you’re absolutely terrible at baking.”

England flushed an even deeper shade of red. “I wanted to impress you,” he muttered, leaning his head on the taller man’s chest. “It was supposed to be a birthday present. I stayed home from work to make them for you. They weren’t supposed to crumble.”

“It’s okay,” France murmured, his hands snaking around his husband’s back and pulling him close. “You tried. I love you. You’re so cute when you’re embarrassed.” This, of course, only made England blush harder. But he still hugged France back and reached up to kiss him on the lips.

“You know there’s only one thing I want for my birthday,” France said, pulling back to look England in the eyes. “You. Besides, your efforts weren’t completely wasted. We can still use the frosting later.” A wiggle of those beautiful French eyebrows returned the blush, which had been fading, to England’s cheeks. Nevertheless, he smiled, feeling loved and worthy even after his previous failure, and let France pick him up bridal-style and carry him off to their bedroom.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this after a failed attempt at macarons myself. I love these two, they're so cute together!


End file.
